Even though Frodo Baggins had an extremely unhobbity lack of interest in pony racing, he couldn't help being drawn occasionally into the sport. Keen pony fanciers were all around him. Not only were his cousin Milo Burrows and cousin-by-marriage Lad Whitfoot joint owners of a famously fast pony named Fleetfoot, but Sam was also a friend of Lad's. During the summer months, Sam always looked forward to going to Michel Delving to see Fleetfoot race. And if Merry and Pippin were in the neighborhood, they also were eager to come along.

It was in the company of Milo and Sam that Frodo rode to Michel Delving a few days before Lithe, for they'd been invited stay at Lad and Angelica's house during the Lithetide races. These races, held on the fairfield just outside the town over the midsummer holiday, were the biggest event of the year for both the farmers who could only race during the spring and early summer, before their ponies were needed for bringing in the hay, and the wealthier gentlehobbits who kept a pony or two exclusively to run. Hobbits from all over the Shire traveled to see the races, and to place wagers on their favorites.

"And there's something in particular I want to show you," Milo had promised them before they set out from Hobbiton, but he would say no more about it during their ride.

They arrived at Lad and Angelica's home on the northern outskirts of Michel Delving in the middle of the afternoon. After being welcomed warmly by their host, Sam helped Lad bring the baggage into the house. Frodo accompanied Milo to the stables to see to their ponies and to see Milo's two eldest sons; Angelica had informed Milo that he would find the boys there. The boys had come to Michel Delving a few weeks earlier at the beginning of the racing season, and were practically living in the stalls.

"They looked so forward to coming back again this spring to help bring Fleet up to form, just as they did last summer," Milo explained as they rode on the lane that took them around to the far side of the stables. As they approached, the stable door that opened onto the lane was flung open. Mosco and Moro, sturdy boys of eighteen and fifteen respectively and very much like their father, came flying out to greet them with shouts and hugs. A third lad, the stable-boy Sandy, hung back shyly.

"How is Fleet?" Milo asked once there had been enough hugs, and the three riding ponies had been given to the boys to tend.

"In top form," said the elder boy, Mosco, who rode Fleetfoot in the races. "I've just had him out for a gallop and he's as fast as he ever was! We just finished brushing him down when you came. He's in his stall if you want to see him."

Milo accompanied his son to see Fleetfoot, and Frodo went with them. Fleetfoot's stall was nearest the door, and surprisingly roomy. The shaggy black-and-white pony within had been freshly curried and had a blanket tied loosely over his back so that he wouldn't take a chill after his exercise. He looked very comfortable. Frodo said as much, and Milo laughed.

"A racing pony has a fairly easy life," he answered as he lifted the latch on the stall door and went inside. Fleetfoot, recognizing him, lifted his head and nickered in welcome. "He doesn't have to pull a cart or plough, just run as fast as he can. Our Fleet is as pampered as a lap-dog--aren't you, Fleety?" Milo gave the pony a pat. "He's nearly ten now, and in spite of what Mosco says, not so swift as he used to be. He's still a great runner and has done us proud as usual in the local races he's run so far this spring, but I think this will be his last season racing. Lad and I will have to talk it over once we see how he fares over Lithetide."

"What will you do with him then?" asked Frodo.

"He'll be given an honorable retirement. After the marvelous change he's brought about in my fortunes, it'd be monstrously ungrateful if I didn't repay him. Besides, he's become quite a pet to the boys, and Lad's and Angelica's children too. When his last race is run, he can look forward to a comfortable meadow to graze in and run as he pleases, and the occasional company of a broodmare."

"Company?"

"It's an idea we had," Milo explained. "Hobbits normally breed their ponies for sturdiness and steadfast temper, but why not breed a pony for speed? Lad and I are thinking of renting Fleet's services for the purpose to other racing fanciers."

"Will they actually pay you for the- ah- service?"

"If they think they can get a pony as fast as our Fleet from it, of course! As a matter of fact, that's what I wanted you to see."

"A colt?" Frodo had wondered; he couldn't imagine that Milo would ask him to ride all the way to Michel Delving just to see Fleetfoot. He'd seen the pony many times, on the racing course and off, and Fleetfoot knew him well. Fleetfoot, after snuffling at Frodo's jacket and finding a familiar scent, began to nip and tug on his pocket in search of sugar or some other treat. Frodo had none, but Milo produced a half-eaten apple from one of his own jacket pockets.

"Yes, a colt," said Milo. "We've already put our idea for breeding Fleetfoot to the test, and tried mating him with one or two good mares of Lad's. One colt Fleet has sired shows particular promise. He's a two-year-old now. We've kept him a great secret, but I wanted to show him to you and Sam before the races. Where is he?" he asked the boys, who replied that the colt was out in the paddock.

Milo led Frodo out through a narrow door at the other end of the stable. Lad and Angelica's smial was on the hill above; a footpath led up from the stables to it. Angelica and her little daughter Willa were at the paddock fence with Sam and Lad, looking at a leggy and shaggy black colt. "There he is," Milo said proudly. "He looks nothing like his sire, but he's just as fast."

When she spotted her uncles, Willa shrieked excitedly and ran up to them, demanding that they too come and see "her" pony.

"Your pony, Willa?" Milo laughed as he scooped the little girl up into his arms, and carried her back to the group at the fence.

"As far as Willa is concerned, Candlestick is hers," Lad said.

"Candlestick?" This struck Frodo as an odd name for a racing pony. Normally, they were given names to suggest remarkable speed.

Angelica explained, "Willa named him for the markings on his brow." Lad reached over the fence and took the colt's bridle, turning its head so that Frodo could see the long, thin white patch that spread between its large brown eyes and down its nose. "She fancied it looked like a candle aflame."

"So it does." Candlestick, like his father, was shy of strangers, but when Frodo extended a tentative hand, the colt pressed his nose into the hobbit's cupped palm, snuffled and snorted, and accepted him. "Does she ride him?"

"She does," said Angelica, "slowly, with one of us standing by. But she'll ride as well as the boys one day. Uncle Milo taught me to ride when I wasn't much older."

"Moro rides him when he trains against his sire," Lad added, "and they keep pace wonderfully well. Did Milo tell you? We're planning to introduce him in this year's Lithetide races."

"I hadn't yet, but I was about to," said Milo. "And will Moro ride him? Are you sure they're both ready?"

"I've seen them train together every day these past two weeks," Lad promised him. "The colt's ready to run, and Moro's as fit to ride as he'll ever be. Besides, Mosco can't ride both Candlestick and Fleetfoot if we run them both." The two fell into a professional conference on the subject. Willa had turned her attention to Sam, and was insisting that he bring her best friend Nellie next time so she could see the pony too. The two little girls had become friends during Angelica's frequent visits to Hobbiton with her children, and Sam promised that he would bring Elanor to Michel Delving once she was old enough to travel so far from home.

Angelica came over to give Frodo a welcoming hug and peck on the cheek. "I'm glad you came," she said. "I know how all this pony-talk bores you, but it's been ages since I've seen you. What's this gossip I hear about you spending so much time with that rather plain and dowdy niece of Aunt Lobelia's? You aren't fortune-hunting, are you, Frodo? Everybody says old Aunt Lobelia left her everything, but there's a very strange story going about that she has to marry you to get it."

Frodo laughed at these teasing questions. "No, it was the other way 'round. Lobelia left me Bag End under condition that I marry Thimula."

"Only Bag End wasn't Missus Sackville-Bagginses to leave to anybody," Sam added. Even though Frodo was in never in any real danger of being forced to marry to keep their home, Sam had never found Lobelia's last wishes as amusing as Frodo did.

"I'm helping Thimula to sort all Lobelia's papers out," Frodo told Angelica. "She's never had any money of her own before, and Aunt Lobelia left her far more than anyone expected. She lived in such a miserly and penny-pinching way, but she owned quite a lot of property around Hobbiton, not to mention acres of land in the Southfarthing and elsewhere in the Shire."

"Somebody else will marry her then," Angelica said confidently, "if you don't."

---

The conversation over dinner that evening focused primarily on the topic of the upcoming races. The boys were eager to tell their father about the races they'd run against each other, and Moro was particularly excited about the prospect of being allowed to ride Candlestick at his debut. Lad also had his carefully considered opinion about the colt's abilities and prospects. Angelica, to try and balance out this "pony-talk" with other subjects, asked after Rosie and the children. The new twins must especially be a handful! She didn't know how Sam and Rosie could manage four small children all at once--she only had two so far and found them quite enough for the time being, although she hoped to have more when Willa and Adalmo were a bit older. It was too sweet of Sam to name his new baby boy after Pippin Took.

"Are Pip and Merry coming to the races?" asked Lad.

"Pippin is," Frodo answered. "I had a letter from him last week. He was in Tuckborough with his family, and he'll definitely be here in time for the first race. He said he didn't know if Merry would be able to come with him."

"I suppose they'll be stopping at the inn by the fairfield," said Lad. "But why don't we invite them here--the more the merrier, as they say. That is, if you don't mind, dearest." He deferred to his wife.

Angelica wasn't very fond of Pippin or Merry, since the pair were too fond of reminding her about her chubby girlhood and persisted in calling her Jelly whenever they met, but she only smiled and said, "No, not at all, darling. We can give them the boys' room."

"Won't the boys want it?" wondered Sam.

"Oh no, Mr. Gamgee," said Mosco. "We hardly we use it. We sleep in the stable loft."

"Every night since they first arrived," Lad told his guests. "They spend all their days there too."

"Sandy sleeps in the loft," Mosco said, as if this were a sufficient explanation.

"We like it there," added his younger brother.

"You find it more comfortable than the room you've been given?" their father asked with a chuckle. "Then I suppose we'll have to see about getting you both a berth at the Hobbiton stables when you come home. You won't want your beds at the Old Place anymore."

After dinner, the boys went out to the stable. The grown-ups sat up awhile talking before they too went to bed. Frodo found he was tired after the long ride. Once he was in his nightshirt, he curled up beside Sam in the room Angelica had given them, and fell asleep quickly.

Early the next morning, he woke to the sound of the boys shouting as they came running up into the house.

Frodo poked his head out of the bedroom door to find a group standing in the hallway. The boys were dressed, anxious-looking, and out of breath. Milo, Lad, and Angelica were still in their nightshifts and dressing gowns, bleary-eyed and hair rumpled, as obviously jolted from their beds moments ago as he'd been himself.

"What is it?" he asked them. "What's happened?"

"Fleetfoot's gone!" said Milo. "He's been taken from his stall." Moro tugged on his father's sleeve, and Milo went out to see for himself. With a word to Angelica, Lad went after them.

Frodo glanced back into the room behind him to find that Sam was also sleepily getting out of bed. Frodo repeated the news to his friend and in silent agreement, they both pulled on their robes and followed the others.

"Do you mind if Sam and I have a look around too?" Frodo requested once they had caught up with Lad on the slope down to the stables.

"No, not at all!" said Lad. "What's the good of having famous investigators as guests if they can't make themselves useful when our prize racing pony is stolen?"

"Are you sure he's been stolen?" Frodo asked. "Is it possible that Fleetfoot could've gotten out by himself and is simply wandering about loose?"

"I doubt it, unless the boys have been careless enough to leave his stall door unlatched and the stable door ajar so that Fleet could push it open. "Moro! Mos! Sandy!" Lad shouted after the three boys, who had run on ahead with Milo. "You didn't leave any doors open, did you?"

"No, Uncle Lad!" Mosco shouted back and went into the stable.

"You always bar the stable doors at night?" Frodo asked Mosco once he too was inside.

"That's right, Uncle Frodo," Mosco confirmed. "We tend the ponies and, before we go to up into the loft, we bar the doors at both ends of the stable and the one to the paddock."

"And all the ponies were put away properly?" Frodo looked into each of the stalls; there were twelve in all, and most were occupied--by Candlestick, by the three ponies he, Sam, and Milo had ridden from Hobbiton, and by others ponies owned by Lad. All were a little skittish with all the hobbits shouting and running about. The roomy stall nearest the outer door was conspicuously unoccupied. "There's no chance Fleetfoot could've gone before you shut things up for the night? Were the ponies left unattended at any time yesterday evening?" Moro and Mosco had certainly left the stables for about two hours to have dinner. He turned to the stable-boy. "Were you here all the time?"

"Oh, no, Mr. Baggins," answered Sandy. "I go home to supper. Mum and Dad are just down the lane."

"Sandy's father is our ostler," Lad told Frodo. "They always go home for their meals, and Sandy comes back at night. What time did you come back last night, Sandy?"

"About dusk, Mr. Lad. 'Twas afore Mosco and Moro came in, but not by more'n ten minutes or so. Fleetfoot was here then--I'd swear to it."

"Fleet was in his stall when we came in after dinner," Mosco confirmed. "I had a look in at him before I went to bed."

"And you boys heard nothing?"

Mosco ducked his head and Sandy bit his lips, but Moro answered, "No, Uncle Frodo. Nothing all night."

"Really?" said Frodo. "That's very curious." He lifted the latch and looked inside the empty stall. It had been mucked out by the boys before dinner last night; he remembered Angelica sending Mosco and Moro off to have baths before letting them set foot in her dining-room. There was fresh straw on the floor, somewhat trodden down but not crushed, and no new droppings. If someone had taken Fleetfoot in the night, they'd come for him early in the evening.

Frodo then examined the stable doors. The stable was a long, low thatched-roof tumulus with a door at each end--one opening onto the foot of the slope below Lad's and Angelica's house, and the other opening onto a short, hedge-lined lane that led onto the road north from Michel Delving. At the middle of the stable was a third double-wide door that opened directly into the paddock. There was no sign of force on any of the three, but Frodo knew there were ways to lift a bar by sliding something through the gaps. He'd done so himself on one or two occasions.

"They must've come in and out that way," Sam said as Frodo examined the door that led out to the road. "It's closest to Fleetfoot's stall, and they'd only have to take 'm the long way 'round to get back to the road if they went out any other way."

Frodo agreed. He opened this door and looked at the ground outside, then walked to the end of the lane. Unfortunately, there had been no recent rain, and there was no mud to provide helpful hoofprints or hobbit footprints to show which way Fleetfoot had gone. "Where does the road go?" he asked. He'd never been further along it than this.

"There are some other farms up that way--Tweedley's, Burdock's, Lowgate Farm," Lad answered. "If you ride on it far enough, it'll take you to Little Delving and Nobottle."

"Who would want to keep Fleetfoot out of the races tomorrow?" Frodo asked him.

"Who would be most likely to take him?" Lad considered the question. "Folk who have ponies running against him, I suppose. Or someone who means to wager a great deal on another pony and wants to be sure of their win."

"Do any of those other ponies' owners have their farms or stables nearby--within a few hours' ride?" At this time of year, the nights were at their shortest. It was still light until 10 in the evening, and dawn was around 3 am. Whoever had taken the pony would have to have hidden him somewhere by daybreak; Fleetfoot was well known around Michel Delving and would surely be recognized if he were seen on the road or in someone else's pasture.

"That might be dozens of people!" Milo said in despair. "There are countless farms and stables around us. They might've gotten as far as Hobbiton or Nobottle, or goodness-knows-where by now!" A horrible thought occurred to him. "What'll happen if we don't find Fleet by tomorrow? The first race is at midday, and he's meant to run in it."

Mosco was also beginning to look deeply distressed as the severity of the situation was borne upon him. "I'm so sorry, Father!" he cried out. "It's my fault. I was meant to look after Fleet."

Milo patted his son's shoulder. "It's all right, my dear," he said, pulling himself together. "It's not your doing. Don't worry--we'll find him."

"We must search," Frodo agreed. This was the most simple and obvious course but, under the circumstances, it was the only thing he could think to do. "If there's no indication of which direction he's gone, then we'll have to look everywhere."

"He has to be somewhere," said Lad.

After dressing hastily, they each took a pony and rode in different directions--Lad and Angelica into Michel Delving, Milo on the great road to the west, Sam and Frodo to the east and south as far as the crossroad to Waymoot, and the boys to the north. They asked everyone they met along the way if they'd seen a black-and-white pony during the night or early-morning hours, and peeked into paddocks and stables whenever they were able. Frodo searched for hoof-prints or trodden-down grass that might show where a pony had been taken off the road into fields or woodlands. But there was no sign of Fleetfoot. They returned one by one in the afternoon, weary and despondent. Mosco was in tears and could not be consoled.

"I'm sorry. I've failed you," Frodo said to the others when they all met again at Lad and Angelica's house at the end of the day.

"You aren't giving up?" asked Milo.

"No, I'll continue to search for him, but I don't see how I can give you any hope that he'll be at the races tomorrow."

"You did your best, Frodo," said Lad. "All of us--we've done all we could. And we still don't know what's become of him."

"You can't solve a mystery without something to guide you toward the truth," added Angelica, who had just looked in on her own children after seeing Mosco to bed in his room. "You need clues and things."

"There've been precious few of those today," Frodo agreed. "I've only seen one so far, and I'm not sure what to make of it..." He fell to silent musing, until the maid brought in a tea tray and Angelica offered him a cup. "How is Mosco?" he asked her.

She shook her head. "Poor boy. I've never seen him so upset."

"He'd think it babyish to admit to it," said Milo, "but I believe he considers Fleet to be his pony in much the same way Willa considers the colt to be hers. He loves him dearly."

"And he won't be able to ride him tomorrow," Lad added glumly. "Frodo's right--There's no hope of it. We'll have to run Candlestick in Fleet's place, and Moro will ride. It's either that, or not race at all."

Frodo brightened a little at this. "I'll go with you. I want to be there when you announce the change. I want to see the other ponies' owners. They have the best reasons for stealing Fleetfoot. No one knows you have another pony to run, do they? Milo said you've been keeping Candlestick a secret." Both Lad and Milo confirmed that this was true. "And don't tell them Fleet is missing. You can make up some good excuse for keeping him out, can't you?"

Milo and Lad agreed that they could, and began to make up a story about Fleetfoot suffering a minor injury.

---

Frodo went to bed that evening more weary than he'd been the night before, for in addition to his usual tiredness after a long day of riding, he was burdened with a heavy sense of defeat. He'd had such feelings before during his investigations: Even in what were considered his most celebrated successes, there was always something he believed had gone wrong, something left undone, a death that might've been avoided if he'd been more clever and seen the truth earlier. But in the end he accomplished what he'd set out to do. Today, he had failed utterly.

He'd been set far greater tasks than finding one pony, but this was a matter of trust and, though he hated to admit to such vanity, personal pride. He was the Shire's famous investigator, an unexampled finder of missing persons and missing jewels, solver of murders. Thains and even the King had engaged his services. Such was Frodo's reputation that when he'd begun exploring the stable this morning in search of clues, Lad and Milo had looked as if they expected him to pull Fleetfoot out of the air, like a conjuring trick. And he hadn't been able to do that.

Once they were abed, Sam voiced Frodo's own thoughts aloud. "What if we don't find 'm?"

"We must, that's all," Frodo answered. "I can't disappoint my own family when they turn to me for help. That pony is dear to every one of them. Remember your Bill, Sam?"

Sam sighed as he recalled Bill the pony. He understood the affection that Milo and his sons, Lad, and even Angelica had for Fleetfoot. And Fleetfoot was more than a beloved pet; he was the Burrowses' and Whitfoots' livelihood. The pony's speed had made their fortunes for them. Even if he no longer ran races after this summer, Fleetfoot was too valuable an animal to be lost. "So what'll you do?" he asked.

"I hope that, after tomorrow's races, I will have sufficient 'clues and things,' to discover what's happened to Fleetfoot." And he had one other idea, that he wasn't yet prepared to reveal to Sam, or to anyone else...

---

After Sam had fallen asleep and the household was quiet, Frodo got up and put on his dressing gown, then slipped down the hallway to the last door at the end, the boys' bedroom. He tapped gently once, then peeked into the room. One bed was empty--Moro was out in the loft with Sandy--but the other was occupied.

"Mosco?" Frodo whispered. "Are you awake?"

Mosco sighed loudly and shifted beneath his blankets, but did not lift his head to look at Frodo. "'m awake."

"Tell me--do you know where Fleetfoot is?"

"No, Uncle Frodo." The boy sobbed. "I wish I did!"

Crowds began to gather on the fairfields early the next day. Although the first race was not until midday, ardent enthusiasts of the sport liked to come well in advance to look over the ponies that were going to run and have a chat with the riders and owners. Also, a good number of hobbits saw the Lithetide races as a time to gather and meet their friends from other parts of the Shire, hear the news, and have picnics, as much as an opportunity to wager on ponies. Indeed, many had brought enormous wicker baskets full of provender to see that they were well supplied throughout the day.

With less than a mile to travel, the hobbits at the Whitfoot smial might have arrived as early as they chose, but instead chose to come late. Lad and Milo had agreed that it would be best to delay the announcement that Fleetfoot wouldn't be racing until shortly before the first race began. Once they showed up at the fairfields without their well-known pony, it would surely be noticed. Frodo had his own reasons for coming late; he wanted to be sure that everyone who might be involved in Fleet's disappearance was at the fairfields ahead of them.

Who would have been running against Fleetfoot? Lad and Milo had provided a list of names the night before: Goldopho Brownlock's pony Windchaser, Happ Broadbanks' Shooting Star, Brugo Folgray's Lightning, and Mrs. Broombindle had a new pony named Twinkletoes.

"She thought Twinklehooves sounded silly," Lad explained once the party had arrived at the westernmost end of the field, where the owners of the ponies traditionally gathered to show them before they were run. The widow Broombindle and her young daughter were at the center of a circle of hobbits examining this new contender. "I've seen him run at her farm and he might've given Fleet a challenge, but I doubt it's her. We've been friends for ages. Besides, she and Myrtle are the only ones I've shown Candlestick to, so they know we've got another pony to run. He won't come as a surprise to them."

"I know Mrs. Broombindle," said Frodo, "and I know Dolpho." The Brownlocks were distantly related to the Bagginses. "Can you point the others out, please?" As Lad and Milo picked out these most likely suspects from among the crowd, Frodo and Sam saw another face they knew well.

"There's Pippin," said Sam.

Pippin had seen them too, and made his way toward them, leaping up on his toes to be seen over the heads of the other hobbits between them, and shouting out names. "I've been looking for you all morning," he said cheerfully once he had reached them. "Frodo, hullo! It's a surprise to see you here."

"Isn't Master Merry with you?" Sam asked, and did not look terribly disappointed when Pippin shook his head.

"He couldn't come. There's too much work to do in Buckland, getting ready for the haymaking. He says he can't shove it all off on Uncle Merry and go running off whenever he feels like it."

"Poor Merry. The responsibilities of the Master of the Hall outweigh a jaunt to the races," said Milo, with a small, wry smile. "As much as Merry might wish they didn't."

"But he told me to tell you he hopes you'll be bringing Fleet to the Bridgefield races in August," Pippin replied. "Uh- where is Fleety?" The only pony in the company of his friends was the colt Candlestick, a little nervous at being among so many strangers, being led by Moro. "Isn't he running today?"

"I'm afraid not," Milo answered. Frodo took Pippin aside to explain what had happened and what he hoped to accomplish today.

Pippin listened to it all with sympathy and intense interest, and responded, "What can I do to help?"

"I believe it's time to announce that Fleet isn't here," Frodo answered. "Milo and Lad are going to tell the other owners, but I've asked Sam to go and tell the people who are placing wagers on the ponies in this first race. Can you do the same? See if you can find out who's wagering against Fleet, and make note of their reactions to the news."

After Sam and Pippin had gone off on their errand, Milo chose a spot at the end of the field to leave Moro tending Candlestick. It should have been a thrilling day for the young boy, riding in his first race, but he looked nearly as morose as his elder brother who had stayed home. Then Milo and Lad went to seek out the other pony owners. Frodo followed, intending to listen in on the conversations and make his observations without being noticed; if he went in the company of his cousin and Lad, everyone who recognized him would assume he was investigating something; the one who had taken Fleetfoot would certainly guess what he was after and be on guard.

The first people to hear the news were Godolpho Brownlock and Brugo Folgray. The two were old friends and long-term rivals; they were looking over each other's ponies with professional appreciation and jealousy, but their main point of contention today was not between each other.

"A girl-rider!" cried Brugo indignantly as Lad and Milo approached. "Have you heard? That Broombindle chit's been in the jumps for years, and now her mother means to let her run that new pony of theirs in the long races. She's riding against us."

"`Tisn't fair," grumbled Godolpho. "I'd put my boy on Windchaser, but he's only three and can't hold onto the reins properly yet. This is all your fault, Milo Burrows--You were the one who started this fashion for children riding the races, when you put Mosco on Fleetfoot that first time and found he went so much faster than he did with Lad's weight on his back. How d'you think Myrtle'll stand up against your lad on Fleetfoot? She's not the feather-light wisp she used to be, but she's still lighter than Mosco."

"Where is your Mosco, by the way?" asked Brugo, looking around. "He's not ill, is he?"

"No," said Milo. "He's staying home, to look after Fleetfoot." He told them the agreed-upon tale of a strained fetlock. Lad offered to introduce them to Candlestick. Frodo watched the two closely for their reactions.

Godolpho was simply surprised. "You're letting little Moro ride today--and on a unknown pony? Well, I wish him luck."

Brugo was dismayed. "Oh, well, that's it then," he said. "It's a children's and colts' race. We may as well go home, Dolph, until our little ones are big enough to ride."

"Hush!" said Godolpho. "Here she comes!"

A young girl, just entering her tweens, was heading straight for them, smiling. She flung her arms around Lad's neck and kissed his cheek, for she had known him since she was no older than his own daughter.

"Laddie-dear, you must come and see Twinks--quickly now, before the first race starts," Myrtle demanded. "Tell me if he's fit to be a match for your Fleetfoot today. Mama says he is, but she would regardless. It's not improper, is it? Mr. Brownlock and Mr. Folgray came and looked Twinks over, so you and Mr. Burrows might as well too. I saw you brought Candlestick. I didn't think you meant to introduce him `til tomorrow."

When Lad explained the last-minute substitution, Myrtle looked momentarily dismayed. "Oh, I'm so sorry about Fleety--I hope he'll be all right." Then she brightened. "But I must say I'm glad to be up against Moro on Candlestick. We can beat them. We've done it half a dozen times already!"

While Lad went with Myrtle to look at Twinkletoes and give his opinion, Milo sought out Happ Broadbanks.

"So that's Fleetfoot's colt, is it? I wondered when I saw you lead him into the field. Yes, of course, I must have a look at him." The jolly young hobbit left his own pony, Shooting Star, to the care of his rider, and with Milo leading the way, went over to Candlestick, who was beginning to draw attention. A circle of curious pony fanciers was gathering. As they made their way through the crowd, Frodo could see Sam and Pippin: Sam was chatting with a local farmer whom Frodo knew to be Lad's neighbor, Mr. Burdock; Pippin was talking with one of the racing brokers, those hobbits more mathematically skilled than their fellows who worked out complicated odds on the races and took wagers from anybody who had the ready money. The broker was removing Fleetfoot's name from his slate and writing in Candlestick's at less favorable odds. Frodo also caught a glimpse of another familiar face in the circle around Candlestick, one he was less pleased to see.

"Well, he looks a bit skittish, but I daresay he'll get used to the crowds once he's run a few times," Happ declared once he had examined Candlestick. I admit, I'm curious to see if the bloodline runs true and he's as fast as his father. I asked your boy Mosco once if you were going to breed Fleetfoot out--he told me you weren't, but perhaps if this one does well, I can persuade you and Lad to change your minds. I have a new colt of my own, by the by, out of my filly, White Flash. You know White Flash. She foaled last autumn, a nice little black-and-white creature with the longest legs you've ever seen. At least, not since your own Fleetfoot was a colt." He gave Milo an odd smile, then laughed. "I'll bring him out in two or three years and we'll see how he fares."

"Hoy there! Milo Burrows!" the local farmer whom Frodo knew to be Mr. Burdock, Lad's neighbor, was coming toward them with Sam not far behind. "What's this I hear? Your friend, Mr. Gamgee here, tells me that Fleetfoot isn't running today? I say--I am sorry to hear that." He sounded sincerely contrite. "Fleetfoot's a fine pony. I'd hate to see such a good racer come to harm, and hope he'll be back on the course again soon."

"We hope so too," said Milo. "Are you racing Blue Blazes today?"

Mr. Burdock shook his head. "Not this Lithetide. She's just come into season. It'd upset every ungelded male for miles around if I brought her here today."

Happ gave Mr. Burdock a quick and curious glance, and smiled again as if he were sharing a private joke. But Mr. Burdock, while he returned the look, did not smile back.

"I confess, I can't see any reason why any of them would want to take Fleet," Lad said once he'd rejoined Frodo, Sam, and Milo. "Myrtle's chances of winning might be better against Candlestick, but she's practically a little sister to me, and would no more harm a pony of mine than I would nobble one that belonged to her and her mother. And as for the others, their own ponies do well enough that Fleet's not a great threat to them."

"Perhaps Dolpho and Brugo don't think so. They seemed a bit resentful of having children not yet in their tweens as riders," observed Frodo. He had other suspicions about Happ Broadbanks, but didn't speak of them yet.

"So they do," agreed Lad, "but if they did mean to strike against us for that, they'd try to take Mosco out of the races, not Fleet."

"They wouldn't dare," Milo said darkly at this hypothetical threat to his firstborn.

Lad grew thoughtful, and it was some minutes before he spoke again, "I say, Frodo, what about the Longchalks? D'you remember them?"

Of course Frodo remembered them. The three burly brothers had once trapped him and Lad at the inn to prevent Lad from going out to the fairfield to ride Fleetfoot in that afternoon's races. Frodo had only escaped by sneaking out dressed in Angelica's clothes. Lad hadn't been able to get out in time to race, and Mosco had ridden Fleetfoot for the first time that day. The trio had been on his mind since he'd glimpsed one of the brothers a few minutes ago. "They aren't running any ponies today, are they?"

"They do sometimes, but not this summer. They haven't had much luck producing a fast un."

"Have they been any trouble to you since that ah- difficulty we had with them a couple of years ago?"

Lad shook his head. "I suppose that's why I hadn't considered them before, not 'til I just saw Ulfodo gaping at Candlestick. I haven't seen much of them at all since Dad won the mayorship again in the last election, but you know what sort of mischief they get up to when they have a mind for it."

Frodo agreed that this was a reasonable theory. "Where is their farm in relation to your house?" he asked. "Is it up along the northern road?"

"It's to the north, but not along the lane past our stables. It's on the far side of that broad meadow over the way--the one the boys like to race in. It's not very many miles away, but they'd have to cut across country or go `round by the road through town."

"If Ulfodo hasn't already told his brothers, why don't we go and tell them that Candlestick's running in Fleetfoot's place?" Frodo suggested. "I want to see their faces when they hear about it. It might tell us a great deal."

But Lad balked; after his previous encounter with the Longchalk brothers, he wanted nothing to do with them.

"I'll go," said Milo, who wasn't intimidated by the Longchalks.

He found the other two Longchalk brothers with Ulfodo at the fence at the very end of the field, the three all talking together. The Longchalks were a large and brawny trio. Their father was a well-to-do local farmer, just as Lad's father had been before he'd become Mayor, but no one would call them gentlehobbits of the same class as the Whitfoots. They were a rough-spoken and ill-mannered lot, given to bullying people to have their way. After meeting them once, Frodo sympathized with Lad's reluctance to be in close proximity to them again; he followed Milo toward them but kept some distance back so as not to draw their attention.

Milo began to tell them his tale of the strained fetlock, but he didn't get far, for the Longchalks had already heard it.

"Everybody's talking about it," said the eldest Longchalk brother, Urgo. "I guessed something was up even before that. I hear tell you and Lad were dashing about yesterday, asking after your famous pony. Your boy came by our way."

"That's just it," Milo lied smoothly. "Poor Fleet broke out of the paddock the night before last, and we had to go hunting for him. By the time we found him, he'd gone a bit lame. I'm sure he'll be right as rain in a day or two, but Lad and I thought it best not to run him today and make the strain worse."

"And will you be racing today?" asked Ulfodo. "I saw you brought along another pony. He looks little more than a baby to me."

"Yes, he's only a two-year-old colt, but he was sired by our Fleetfoot. We meant to introduce him tomorrow, but since Fleet isn't able to run, he'll take his sire's place. His name is Candlestick."

The three brothers stared at Milo. "Candlestick?" Udo Longchalk laughed after a moment. "What sort of name is that?"

"Lad's daughter named him," Milo told them. Ill-mannered the Longchalks might be, but they were not going to insult a four-year-old child to her uncle's face.

"Is he any good, this colt of yours?" asked Urgo. "Being Fleetfoot's?"

"I've no idea," said Milo, "but we'll soon find out."

The first race was about to begin, and there was no time for further conversation or investigation. Milo excused himself to the Longchalks, and walked swiftly away. Frodo caught up with him as he returned to where Moro and Lad were waiting with Candlestick. "Well?"

"I'm sure they're behind it, though I can only guess why," Milo said tersely, without slackening his pace. "Pure mischief, most likely, or because they have a big wager on someone else."

"Yes," Frodo had to agree. The sneering way the brothers had asked about yesterday's search for Fleetfoot, as if they were well aware Milo was lying, not to mention their surprise at Candlestick's existence, suggested a great deal to him. As Milo walked on, Frodo stopped to consider Milo's second guess as to their motives. The Longchalks had first quarreled with Lad over Fleetfoot losing them money. Could they have wagered a large amount against him, and were keeping him to ensure their winnings? Candlestick's presence might well spoil such plans, if the colt were as fast as his sire. Spotting Pippin and quickly seizing him by the arm, Frodo sent his Took cousin off on another errand among the brokers.

The course was cleared, and the ponies were brought to the mark by their riders. Candlestick was skittish about being among so many strange ponies and hobbits, but Moro did his best to keep the colt under control. A red flag was waved, and the ponies were off.

Candlestick didn't win his first race; the shouting of the crowds alarmed him and Moro had trouble keeping him to the course at first. Once the young pony understood what he was meant to do, he showed a burst of speed and came in third behind Twinkletoes and Windchaser, which Milo said was a creditable beginning. The colt had settled down by the time he ran his second race in the afternoon, and with a similar burst of speed, pulled ahead at the last moment to beat out Windchaser by a nose. In his third race, no one could catch him. Lad and Milo were beaming with pride and relief as they accepted congratulations and hearty handshakes.

Pippin was grinning when Frodo found him again. "I put my money on Candlestick all three times," he announced cheerfully. "The brokers thought I was a fool at first, but family loyalty paid out in the end. I can go back to Buckland for the rest of the summer now--I won't need my allowance from Father for weeks!"

"And did you ask them about the Longchalks?" asked Frodo.

"Oh, yes. I asked every broker I could get hold of. They all know the Longchalks, and everybody else who comes to races regularly. None of them accepted a wager from them for any of the ponies that were supposed to run against Fleetfoot today."

So, unless one of them had made a private wager with a friend, the Longchalks had no interest at all in Fleetfoot's winning or losing today. But Frodo remained certain they were behind the pony's disappearance. Why then? Was it merely an act of spite, or could there be some other reason? Frodo's mind was already turning to another possibility, based on all he had seen and heard today.

Milo, Lad, and Pippin stayed on after the last long races to see Myrtle Broombindle run another pony through the jumping course laid out at the southern end of the field. Frodo and Sam saw Moro and Candlestick back to Lad's home; Moro was heartened by his successes that day, but not as happy as a boy in his position ought to be. He was still worried about Fleetfoot.

When they reached the house, the boy took the pony into the stables. Sam and Frodo went up to the house to find Angelica and her mother there, returned from the annual crafts fair that the ladies of Michel Delving held in town for those not interested in pony racing; in normal circumstances, Frodo would have joined them today and acted as judge in some of the competitions. The two ladies were just sitting down to tea with Angelica's children and the forlorn Mosco, who was being plied with sugar cakes and cream buns in an effort to lift his spirits. All were pleased to hear that Candlestick had done so well. Once they had delivered this news--and Sam had taken a couple of cakes for himself--he and Frodo went out again with assurances that they would be back in time for supper.

Frodo wanted first to have a look at the broad field Lad had mentioned on the other side of the lane from the stables. It was broad indeed--more than a mile from end to end, and nearly as wide--bounded by tall hedges and dry stone walls, with groves of young trees here and there, and tall buttercups rising from the well-trampled grass. Mosco and Moro raced the ponies against each other here. If anyone had brought Fleetfoot through this meadow the night before last, any trace of it was lost amid the melee of older hoof-prints.

They walked across to the far end, and found a gate which opened onto another hedgerowed lane. From there, it was not far to the front gate of Mr. Burdock's farm. In the paddock was a slate-gray mare that Sam identified as Blue Blazes; he had seen her run on other occasions. An ostler came out to greet them while they were looking at Blue Blazes and, in answer to Frodo's questions, informed them that Mr. Burdock was still out, and gave them directions to the Longchalk farm "up t' way."

"What're you going to do?" Sam asked him as they went northward along the lane.

"Look around, that's all," Frodo answered. "If Fleetfoot is on their property, there are only so many places they can hide him--if he's not in the stable, then a barn or toolshed or other outbuilding. I doubt they'd bring him into their house. We must peek into as many places as we can before they come home." He looked skyward, at the dark clouds gathering. "I don't imagine anyone will linger on the fairfields for very much longer--it looks like rain."

Following the ostler's directions, they turned up another lane. To one side was a pasture--belonging to Mr. Burdock, the Longchalks, or someone else, Frodo didn't know. It was occupied by a single sooty-black pony, which lifted its head from grazing and nickered as Sam and Frodo went past. There was a distinct smell of ash in the air. "It smells like they've been burning something," said Sam, wrinkling his nose.

Half a mile farther along, they came to the Longchalk's farmhouse. No one was in sight and, instead of going up to the front door and knocking like expected visitors, they went around to the barns and stables and were about to climb over a fence, when a voice called out. "Here, you! What're you doing there?"

It was Urgo Longchalk, coming out of the stable.

"We were just looking about for someone," said Frodo, taking his foot down off the lowest rail of the fence. "It didn't look as if anyone were at home."

"Father's in town, and my brothers are still at the races. I only just came home myself," Urgo told them as he came closer. "I know you, don't I? You're that detective cousin of Milo Burrows. I saw you on the fairfields today with him."

"Frodo Baggins, at your service," Frodo said with perfunctory courtesy.

"Yes, and your shirriff friend from Hobbiton." Urgo looked from one to the other. "I remember you. We met over that business with Lad Whitfoot a couple of years ago."

"When you and your brothers was blackmailing Lad," Sam said. "You were saying he was a cheat, when he wasn't at all, and you knew it. You wanted him to give you money to keep quiet about it."

"But that was ages ago, and we haven't had dealings with Lad since," Urgo responded. "What brings you here now? It's not over Fleetfoot, is it?" He laughed. "It is! Their precious pony's gone missing, and they've set their detective cousin into looking for him! We knew Milo was lying about that fetlock. That's not why Fleetfoot wasn't at the races today. He hasn't pulled up lame! He's gone, and you've got it into your head that we have him here."

"Don't you?" Sam demanded.

Frodo placed a hand on his friend's arm to forestall any fights. "If you do know where Fleetfoot is, Mr. Longchalk, it's best to tell us now. Mr Gamgee is not here as an officer of the law--not yet. I'm sure you know that stealing a pony is serious business. Your father wouldn't want to hear that his sons have been arrested as pony-thieves."

"We didn't steal him!" Urgo insisted. "We've never been near Lad's place. If precious Fleetfoot got out of his stall and was wandering about the fields at night, it wasn't our doing. We had no part in it. He isn't here." He smiled rather smugly. "Come in and look about all you like. There's no ponies `cept the ones who should be here."

At this invitation, Frodo climbed over the fence and had a look around the stable. There were several cart and riding ponies within, none resembling Fleetfoot. A barrel of soot lay tipped just outside the stable's paddock door; hoof-prints suggested that at least one pony had trodden through it, and there were some sooty smears on the back and flanks of a lone mare in the paddock. To Sam, none of this seemed significant, but Frodo was smiling.

"I think we've seen enough, Sam."

"But we haven't found Fleetfoot!" Sam turned in the direction of the barn. "Aren't you going to look in there?"

Frodo shook his head. "Fleet isn't here. Come along!"

Rain began to fall as they walked back down the lane. When they reached the same pasture they'd gone by on their way to the Longchalk farm, Frodo stopped to look again at the sooty-black pony. Its coat was oddly streaked by the rain.

He climbed over the gate to enter the field and approached the pony carefully, not wishing to startle it. Once he was close enough, he held out his hand. The pony did not shy from him, but lifted its nose into his palm, snorted, and mumbled his sleeve before trying to get at his jacket pocket. Frodo stroked the animal's head, then looked down at his hand. Then, to Sam's astonishment, he gripped the pony's mane gently and leapt up to mount it.

"Open the gate, Sam!" Frodo called out to his friend, and nudged the pony with his heels, urging it forward.

"You're stealing their pony?" Sam asked, horrified.

"Not at all. I'm stealing Fleetfoot back," Frodo explained as he rode through the gate Sam held open for him. He lifted his hand to show Sam that the palm was covered with soot.

Milo, Lad, and Angelica were delighted when Frodo brought back their stolen pony, once they understood that it was indeed Fleetfoot he was riding. The rain had washed off enough of the soot so that the patches of white coat beneath were now dirty grey. Moro and Sandy came running out of the stables with happy shouts. Mosco emerged from the house to race down the hill, threw his arms around Fleetfoot's neck, mindless of getting wet soot all over himself, and burst into tears. While Milo sent the boys to fetch soap and warm water and plenty of brushes to clean the mess off Fleetfoot and themselves, Sam fussed over Frodo's ruined trousers, which were as covered in soot as the pony he'd ridden bareback.

"And you smell like a bonfire, Frodo dear," observed Angelica.

"I know. It was that, and the fact that Fleetfoot knew us, that made me understand what had happened. The soot-barrel in the Longchalks' stableyard confirmed it," Frodo answered cheerfully, but he consented to go and have a bath himself before he explained these cryptic remarks.

After his bath, sitting in his dressing gown and having a cup of tea before dinner, Frodo told the story of how he had discovered Fleetfoot to his cousins.

"So it was the Longchalks!" said Lad. "But what I don't understand is why they left Fleety out where someone was sure to see him. They might just as easily have hidden him in their stables or another field miles from town."

"I think they did at first. I'm sure he was in their stable yesterday, and just as sure that Urgo came home ahead of his brothers this afternoon to turn Fleetfoot loose so they could claim they didn't know of his whereabouts. Urgo hinted as much to me when he invited us to look around their stables. He expected Fleet would be found wandering eventually. Perhaps he even hoped that the coming rain would wash Fleetfoot clean of the soot they'd used to disguise him before he was found. I believe they let him go because it no longer served their purpose to keep him. Something else, very important, happened at the races today, that they hadn't foreseen."

"Candlestick won two races," said Milo with satisfaction.

"Precisely," said Frodo. "They didn't know about the colt when they took Fleetfoot, and after he did so well, they had little reason to hold Fleetfoot anymore. The theft of a pony is very serious. But poor Fleet's condition when I found him, and that barrel of soot provide enough proof for you to make an accusation against them, if you wish to."

"Well, I don't care so much about that, now that Fleetfoot's back with us unharmed," Lad said generously. "If he's up to it, we might even run him tomorrow."

While Lad and Milo discussed the pony's state of health and prospects for the rest of the Lithetide holiday, Frodo went back to his room to dress for dinner. As he dressed, he began to form a plan.

"I have a request," he said to the others as he joined them at the table. "I'd like to sit out in the stable tonight and keep watch--Sam and I. We'll take the boys' place in the loft."

"But why? Do you think they might try to steal Fleetfoot again?" asked Angelica.

"It's possible," Frodo answered after a slight hesitation. "But this time, they might be after Candlestick, now that they've seen him run. I want to be ready to catch them at it."

After dinner, Moro and Mosco went to bed in their bedroom. The stableboy Sandy was sent home. Sam and Frodo settled down to spend the night in the stable loft. Sam took efforts to make the loft as comfortable as possible for Frodo; he'd brought pillows and a quilt from the house and bundled a pile of straw beneath a thick woolen blanket.

"You weren't telling the truth," he said as Frodo lay down beside him on this makeshift mattress. "You don't expect those Longchalks to come and get Candlestick."

Frodo shook his head. "No, Sam, but I thought it best to let them all believe so, rather than explain why I wanted to come out here tonight. There is some part of the truth I can't tell them yet, but that someone else ought to. I expect the person who took Fleetfoot to come to me and confess. This gives him the opportunity to do so privately."

"So it wasn't the Longchalks?" Sam was baffled. "But they had Fleet! You said so yourself, and I saw that tipped-over ashbarrel in their yard where they got the soot to cover him in."

"They had him, yes, but I'm certain they weren't the ones who took him from the stable that night. I think Urgo Longchalk was telling the truth when he said that he and his brothers hadn't been near Lad's. He also said something about Fleet wandering the fields at night, which makes me think that was how and where they did find him."

"And took him back to their own farm rather'n bring 'm home?" Sam spoke with a note of disgust. "They can say that's not stealing, but it's right close to it."

"Indeed. They might say they're innocent of theft, but their actions regarding Fleetfoot these last two days don't bear close examination. One thing has struck me as peculiar since the beginning, Sam." Frodo was in much better spirits tonight, since Fleetfoot had been recovered unharmed and his relatives were happy. He'd ended his investigation successfully after all. He'd even brought off the conjuring trick they'd been hoping for. He was pleased to explain his reasoning and was almost flirtatious as he gave Sam a hint. "Do you remember when I asked the boys if they'd heard anything, and they said they hadn't?"

Sam remembered. "You said it was 'curious.' I wondered what you meant when you said it."

"Just that, Sam. It was very curious indeed. Think about it: You know Fleetfoot nearly as well as Lad and Milo do. He's a pony rather timid of strangers. I don't believe he would allow anyone he didn't know and trust to lead him out of his stall in the middle of the night. He'd certainly kick up enough fuss to wake the boys if one of those Longchalk brutes had tried to take him."

"So it must be someone the pony knows, if they wanted to lead him out quiet-like," said Sam thoughtfully as he gathered Frodo into his arms and spooned in close behind him.

"There are three possibilities, one more likely than the others, although I'm sure the other two could tell us more about this business too. We'll just have to wait and see if I'm right."

This was enough of a hint for Sam to understand who Frodo meant without his naming names. "But why?" he asked. "What did they want to take Fleet out in the middle of the night for?"

"I don't believe they meant him harm, Sam. I have an idea of what was behind it all--just a suspicion, mind you, from some remarks I overheard at the races today. But it wouldn't surprise me to learn that Candlestick isn't the only foal Fleetfoot's sired... Well, we'll have to wait and see about that too. We have a little time to spend while we wait."

He moved closer back against Sam, enjoying the sensation of being held this way again after so long. Frodo rarely saw Sam privately in their own home anymore. It was impossible for them to meet at nights; Mrs. Cotton and Marigold were practically living at Bag End to help out with caring for the newborn twins as well as the two older children. And even though Angelica had given them a room to share here, it was between her own room with Lad and the one where Milo was sleeping, and with the windows wide open during these warm summer nights, they had to be careful not to have any personal conversations nor make noises they would not wish their hosts to overhear. This was the first time they'd truly had a chance to be alone together since they'd come to Michel Delving.

Frodo was therefore not surprised, and not unpleased, when Sam unfastened his trouser buttons and slipped a hand inside; in response, he twisted his head and the upper half of his body around to give Sam a kiss.

"We can't go too far," he warned Sam after they'd kissed. "We might have to be ready to go down at a moment's notice if someone comes in below." But he saw no reason they couldn't have a bit of fun. It was still early, and he wasn't expecting anyone to come in until later in the night, when things were quiet. Turning fully toward Sam, Frodo shrugged off his braces from his shoulders and wriggled to slide his unfastened trousers down over his hips. The feeling of rough wool against his bare backside was arousing, and his erection, once free of the waistband of his smallclothes, sprang straight up. Sam laughed, and bent his head to it.

Frodo was nearly at the moment of ecstasy, when he was jolted suddenly from it by the stirrings of the ponies waking below as one of the stable doors was pushed open. He shoved Sam's head away and hastened to rearrange his disheveled clothing before he crawled to the edge of the loft to peer down while Sam scrambled to find and light the lantern.

When Sam held the lantern up, they saw that the intruder was Mosco, gazing up at them with large and sorrowful eyes.

"Uncle Frodo," the boy spoke. "You know, don't you? It's all my fault."

"I guessed that you'd taken Fleet from his stall, and guessed the reason why as well," Frodo answered. "Why don't you tell me how it all came about?" He climbed down the ladder to hear what Mosco had to say.

"It started the summer before last," Mosco began. "When I first started riding Fleet, people at the races would come and ask me if Father and Uncle Lad were renting him out- um- for stud. When I said No they weren't, they asked me if I would. I said No to that too. Then one afternoon after the season was over, I was taking Fleet through his paces by myself in the big field across the way. And Mr. Broadbanks was there. He'd brought along his mare White Flash, and he said he'd pay me well if I left him with the two ponies alone for a half-hour or so--to see if they 'got on well together,' was how he put it. He offered a lot of money, more'n I've ever had in my whole life, Uncle Frodo. Gold!"

"So much gold that you couldn't resist?" said Frodo.

"Well, I began to think Why shouldn't I? What'd be the harm? It wouldn't hurt Fleet, and wouldn't hurt Father nor Uncle Lad either. They've talked about doing the same now that Fleet's about to retire from racing. So I left the ponies and took a walk through Lowgate's orchard. I ate some apples, and when I got back, Mr. Broadbelt and White Flash were gone, and Fleet was there just as I'd left him. I heard later that White Flash was having a foal."

"You've done it since then too?"

The boy nodded. "Once or twice this summer past. I had plenty of pocket money over the winter, but I was specially careful not to spend so much that anybody'd notice and wonder where I got it from. Only Moro knew, and Sandy. There was no way to manage it without them knowing, and I gave them a share."

"You boys left the door unbolted so somebody could get in?" asked Sam.

"No, Mr. Gamgee. I took Fleetfoot out myself." Mosco didn't see the look exchanged by the elder hobbits over his head at this confirmation of Frodo's theory. "I'd walk him out to the lane, then rode him over in the meadow, where we'd meet somebody with a mare. Just like that first time, only now I knew who was to be there waiting. I never stayed to watch," the boy added as if this were a point in his favor. "Mother and Father wouldn't think it fitting. Besides, I saw it once before, some other ponies of Uncle Lad's. I thought it was icky. Sandy says hobbits make babies the same way, but I don't believe him. When I left Fleet I'd go for a walk or go back to the stable, then I'd come back again in an hour or so to take him home. He was always fine. But when I came for him this last time, he wasn't there!"

"You left him with the Longchalks?" Frodo asked incredulously. "Surely you know how Lad mistrusts them?"

"Of course I know. No! I wouldn't do that, Uncle Frodo," Mosco insisted. "It wasn't them. It was Mr. Burdock. He runs a fast filly called Blue Blazes. His farm's the one just on the other side of the big meadow, between us and the Longchalks. If you went over that way today you must've gone past. But I guess they got wind of it."

"You didn't know they'd taken him?"

Mosco shook his head vehemently. "I thought he'd wandered out of the meadow. I thought maybe Mr. Burdock left the gate open when he took Blue Blazes away. So I went to get Moro and Sandy, and we went looking `til it was daybreak. Then we had to go back to the house. We agreed to tell everybody that Fleet'd been taken out of his stall. It was the best we could think to do, and I thought we'd go on looking with the grown-ups to help and we'd find him soon enough. It wasn't 'til Father talked about what'd happen if we didn't find him, I saw the trouble we were in. I wanted to tell him. I tried to but I couldn't, not when he said it wasn't my doing--when it was!" He looked up at Frodo and finished his story quickly. "I went over to Mr. Burdock's. He said he'd left Fleet grazing in the meadow when he took Blue Blazes away. And I went by the Longchalks after that, just to see if they'd seen him. They said they hadn't, but in a nasty kind of way, like they were glad to hear he was missing. They even said I could have a look around if I wanted."

"Did you see a black pony?" asked Frodo.

Mosco nodded. "There was a black pony in the paddock with the others. I never guessed it was Fleet `til I heard your story tonight, Uncle Frodo. I know you won't tell Father. You would've already if you meant to. But you think I ought to?"

Frodo nodded.

"He's going to be angry."

"I expect he will, but perhaps he'll be more understanding now that Fleetfoot is safely home again." While Fleetfoot hadn't been harmed by being introduced to mares in season now and again, Frodo wasn't sure exactly how Milo and Lad would feel about Mosco's activities. He doubted the boys would be allowed to spend their nights unattended in the stables hereafter. Would Milo go so far as to stop the boys from riding? And while their behavior was dubious, Frodo wasn't sure that the owners of the mares had committed a crime. The breeding of animals in the Shire was usually an informal arrangement. Farmers often lent the services of a good bull to cover a neighbor's cow for the asking. All dog owners might ask for was the pick of the litter. The Longchalks had stolen Fleetfoot for the purpose, but could such services themselves really be stolen? Since they were planning to stud Fleetfoot to other racing fanciers in future, Milo and Lad seemed to have no problem seeing their fast pony's progeny racing against the colt they'd bred themselves. All the same, he was sure they would want to know about the other foals Fleet had sired.

He posed these questions to Sam after they'd sent Mosco back to the house. Even though he was an officer of the law, Sam had no idea. It seemed to him more of a nasty piece of trickery than outright theft, except for the Longchalks' taking Fleetfoot; there, he was willing to bring their tricks to the attention of the local shirriff if Lad and Milo wished it.

"Perhaps they will," said Frodo. "Or perhaps not, once they hear what Mosco has to say. We'll see what happens tomorrow."

For form's sake, they returned to the loft to spend the rest of the night. It wasn't as comfortable as their bedroom in the house, but they'd slept in worse places, and the loft had the advantage of privacy. They soon picked up where they'd left off when Mosco had come in, and were not interrupted again. The only sounds to be heard below during the night were the occasional stamp or snort of a sleeping pony.

---

Fleetfoot appeared at the races the next morning with the white patches of his hide still faintly gray even after several baths. Neither Milo nor Lad attempted to explain this discoloration, nor the miraculously swift healing of the strained fetlock. Fleet showed no signs of lameness when he ran in that day's first race, and won. He was successful in several other races later in the day, and while the crowds were pleased to see him, many were more interested in seeing Candlestick run again after the colt had showed so much promise the day before. Frodo guessed that Mosco hadn't yet told his father the facts behind Fleetfoot's disappearance. Perhaps the boy was waiting for the success of the day to put Milo in a good mood.

Milo was in a very good mood when he returned to Lad and Angelica's home at the end of the day. "Fleet will run out this summer, but I think it will be his last," he told Frodo. "He'll retire to a comfortable life at Lad's farm, and with luck we'll see more foals of his as fast as Candlestick in future."

Frodo reflected that there would be several more foals of Fleetfoot's than Milo was currently anticipating. The races looked to be more interesting once Happ Broadbelt's black-and-white colt was ready to run, or if Mr. Burdock's grey filly produced a fast foal. Even the Longchalks might produce a race-worthy pony in a few years' time.